whirlwinds
by panicmoons
Summary: altair/malik; there's a storm brewing.


**Whirlwind**

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Fandom: Assassin's Creed

Characters: Altair Ibn'La-Ahad, Malik A-Sayf

Rating: PG-13

Notes:_ First fanfic for this fandom- no wait, where are you going? Come back! D:_

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_"in the hour of adversity be not without hope_

_for crystal rain falls from black clouds"_

Altair never waits for an opening.

Instead, he creates one himself.

The sky is a dark, ominous mirror that reflects the fluorescent embers in the sky. The clouds are lazy and languid, and shield the moon protectively from the harsh winds of the night. It is moist, wet, and somewhat soothing compared to other Arabian nights and is, for the most part, peaceful.

Just the calm before the storm.

Altair knows this best. He's always known.

He's a storm himself, really. There's no doubt. His aggressiveness is naught short of a predator's, his recklessness always a familiar sight, and his speed- well, he's always been just one step ahead of the race. He is much like gales in essence; there's nothing that can stop him, and it's evident that nothing can change that.

It's unhealthy. And it is _perfect._

In all his years, Malik's never encountered such a being as Altair himself. The Eagle of Masyaf, the Grand Assassin- _all these titles_, he thinks, _mean nothing_. Because no matter what name one may give him, no matter how many titles he can hold, it's always the same. He is insatiable. And he always wants more.

Malik moves like a ghost: twisting this way and that, skillfully gliding (his eyes turned up in wry amusement), and floating past Altair almost gracefully, as if he knows Altair's moves by heart. But he doesn't. And he never will. And each scar Altair gives him is painfully sharp to the touch. He only grins, because teasing him is only part of the game, and Altair's response would only answer him in the sharpest of gasps.

Dynamic. Of course that's what it is. Malik dodges the glistening silver of Altair's vein by a hint- and it is too close. _Much too close._ Altair laughs under his breath, head cocked to the side like a crane's, and gives Malik a look that would make him quiver where he stands; he is simply underhanded, and he knows perfectly.

Malik turns his forearm slightly, angling his blade ready to strike at the crease of Altair's shoulder. All too soon Altair counters, ducking under his swift arm in one large stride, golden eyes tracking Malik's every breath, every blink. It's almost a dance, he thinks in amused maliciousness, an art before the execution of another. They're training, of course. But there are other things- that are killing them softly, and slowly, and for the first time, they are powerless. And yet, they don't seem bothered. They never do.

Impatiently, Malik jumps forward, slashing Altair's upper torso with an upward swing of his blade, using such an opening to his advantage. Altair's almost never let his guard down before. Altair's skin is painted with hints of red; speckled paint against the canvas of his assassin robes.

"Is something distracting you, Altair?" Malik can't help but tease, after all, he did find the one astray feather of the mighty eagle. Might as well reap the results whilst he can.

"Not at all, brother. Perhaps I was too mindful of striking you down- such a _novice_ as yourself couldn't possibly bare the pain."

At this, Malik laughs.

"We shall see. Do not hold back, brother. Tell me what you really _want_."

Growling, Altair lunges, movements faster than previously, controlled and with more force and turns than the curt, simple thrusts and retracting motions prior. He has no qualms, to be honest, he merely wants possession. And that's exactly what he gets. There's no complete satisfaction—there truly is not.

The sky bellows, and crashes without descent.

Altair knocks Malik off his feet, rolling over Malik's back to his other side when the one-armed assassin ducks to strike at his ankles and dropping into a fluid crouch to kick him off balance. Swiftly moving and turning to avoid another of Malik's feeble attacks, Altair manages to slide his blade against Malik's shoulders, only just enough to tear through the fabric, yet deep enough to reach Malik's inner being, his heart, his very soul.

With Malik on the floor and Altair with the upper-hand, it is really only a matter of time now.

He simply just turns mad for more. _And more. **And more**_. He is simply just the greediest fool of them all. And he wants it no other way.

"Fighting dirty as usual, novice?" Malik growls.

"Only with you, brother." Altair grins, maliciously. "Only with you."

The faint pitter-patter of the drops are heard.

It is a battlefield. It is a ballroom. It is everything. And it is nothing. Altair's calloused hand, where his fluorescent blade perks proudly against his wrist, finds a way to the tip of Malik's defined chin, right where his scruff kisses his skin. He lifts Malik's head, lowering himself slowly onto the pinned assassin.

Malik is trapped. And he's known this. He's always known. Just like Altair, he's _always_ known.

Altair makes his way downward, the storm he is, tearing apart everything in his way. Filled to the brim with aggressiveness, anger, grace, and power. He's closing in, he's the calm before the storm. He will inflict his damage beyond no greater bounds. He must wait. And then- that's when he shall strike.

His mouth moves with the fierce desire to express his desperation and the broken state of Malik upon the floor, as if he was the judged before the stand, as if the Brotherhood could see him then. Let him have what he wants, what he needs. Let him taste in all his wickedness and power.

Malik's lips taste of blood. It is with his tongue that Altair takes what he already has.

And he is hungry, ravenous. He presses his face into the latter's body, his insatiable appetite fueling the sagacity of his fingers, mouth, tongue, teeth, and hands—how he devours all that is Malik. He bites, he licks, he hungers for more.

There is a final crack of an electric whip in the sky. Then the drops come down, all at once. The storm, like Altair, holds back no longer.

And they know- during these Arabian nights, when it rains, it **_pours._**


End file.
